


Onions

by WhiskyNotTea



Series: Whisky's Other Outlander Tales [17]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Gen, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 14:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyNotTea/pseuds/WhiskyNotTea
Summary: Glenna has her restaurant, her family and her memories. And that is all she needs.A glimpse into the life of Glenna FitzGibbons, in a modern setting.





	Onions

Glenna FitzGibbons left the house and locked the door behind her. 

One, two, three, four times. 

These doors, her nephew Murtagh had insisted, were useless unless you made sure all screws were in place. So Glenna made sure. 

It wasn’t easy living alone these days. Last week burglars had broken into a house at the block up the street. The police were still investigating the case. 

She briefly wondered whether it would be different if her man was alive, or if he would just provide a fragile feeling of security with minimum impact on reality, were the thieves at their doorstep. 

She shook her head as if to shake the thoughts away. She looked upwards, and her pursed lips changed into a smile. In greeting. Silent words formed in her head, the same she always said when she left the house.

_I’m going to work, mo chridhe._

The walk to her small restaurant took less than ten minutes. Plump she might be, and the doctor might insist she lose weight, but her quick feet hadn’t failed her yet. It took her ten minutes to get there, and not one more. Rain or shine. 

When John had passed away, everyone thought Glenna would close the restaurant. She was old, and running it without him wouldn’t be easy. Murtagh had suggested they sell it. Jamie tried to convince Jenny to take over the business, but the lass had declared that with that family of hers, she’d cooked enough for two lifetimes. Glenna let them talk, and fight, and brainstorm for ideas. 

At last, she announced that she was keeping _Leoch’s Kitchen_ no matter what. She was certain John would agree.

The wooden sign next to the door moved slightly in the autumn wind, and Glenna’s smile grew. For years, she had been the first to arrive to open the restaurant, to begin the preparations before her lassies and lads arrived. 

Others called them employees, but for Glenna, they were family. 

Ian arrived first. Glenna heard him singing one of those deplorable songs he seemed to like, and waited for him to enter the kitchen before she talked, sure that the loudest scream wouldn’t go through his earbuds. He came to a stop at the counter across from her, and as Glenna looked into his warm hazel eyes she would swear he was four years old again and begging for a slice of freshly-baked bread with butter. But she had to look up to see these eyes now. Jenny’s wee one had become a man; tall with a body shaped from the same mold as his father’s. He said a singsong hello as he tied his hair on a knot at the back of his head, walked around the counter, and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek.

“Onions? D’ye do it on purpose, auntie? Every time I come, ye’re chopping these damned onions!” he said, blinking as his eyes started to tear up.

“Well, I dinna remember ye cursing at them when ye have them in yer burger!” Glenna laughed, sniffling herself.

Ian scrunched up his nose, picked a cherry tomato from the bowl next to him, and took a few steps away in an attempt to remove himself from the onion vapor.

“Uncle Jamie said that the wine delivery will arrive in about an hour. I’ll stay to help.”

Glenna hummed. “Wasn’t he supposed to be here?” she asked, wondering when, exactly, the plans had changed. 

“Aye, but he said auntie Claire started to suspect we’re preparing something for her birthday and he couldna find a good excuse to leave the house.” Ian was now in front of the fridge, staring at the shelves, no doubt wondering what else was available to eat.

Glenna smiled at herself, and moved about deliberately. Three minutes later, she was toasting a sandwich for the ever-hungry-lad.

“Do ye think Auntie Claire will figure the surprise out?” he asked with the sandwich in hand and his mouth full, spreading bread crumbs around.

Of course Claire would find out, sooner or later. If she hadn’t done that already. But Glenna didn’t have the heart to tell Ian. “Nah,” she reassured him. “We have everything under control.”

Ian continued devouring his sandwich, and Glenna picked up her favourite knife again. Who would imagine, Claire’s 55th birthday. The wee curly-heided medical student who had forgotten her keys at Glenna’s restaurant that October night she celebrated her 20th birthday. 

Thirty-five years. It felt like yesterday, and yet it didn’t.

Glenna could feel each passing year in the ache of her bones. It was there, in the empty side of her bed. In the wrinkles of her face. Two deep ones between the brows, a testimony of her concentration when she was cooking, her love for perfection. And the others, so many others, lines covering her white skin and showing to the world that she had cried, and smiled, and lived. 

Thirty-five years had gone by. Glenna had seen her daughter getting married and held her bonnie granddaughter in her arms, tufts of blonde hair shining under the sun. And then she had fixed that golden hair and comforted her granddaughter before her own wedding, when Laoghaire had a breakdown thinking her hairstyle had been a disaster. She had witnessed her grumpy Murtagh fall in love and make his own family. She had seen her nephews and nieces make their dreams come true, finding their own paths to happiness.

In all those years, Glenna had made wedding and birthday cakes, had prepared brunches and dinners for her family, and had laughed until all breath gone out of her lungs in those gatherings. She had made cookies with the wee ones – each and every one of them. The FitzGibbons, the Frasers and the MacKenzies, all covered up with flour and face-splitting grins. 

She had held her John’s hand when he was strong and led her up the munros, and when he was weak and let her lead him to their bed. She had felt his breaths giving her life with every kiss, and she had felt them taking life away after each session of chemotherapy, when each inhalation was more laboured than the previous one. 

Thirty-five years of life. Almost double what Ian had lived so far. 

Glenna’s eyes glinted, from the onions or the memories she wasn’t sure, and she looked upwards again, sending her thoughts towards him. Reminding him that she would always keep him by her side. 

“See? I told ye these onions are evil!” Ian exclaimed, walking towards the sink to wash his dish.

“Aye, wee evil onions”, Glenna murmured. 

Like memories. You never know if they’ll turn out to be sweet or sharp. But it’s their taste, we’re craving for.


End file.
